


Miguel

by ziyazu



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Sex, Blowjobs, Jackson is a dick, Jungle, Legal Technicalities, M/M, Summer Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-25
Updated: 2013-09-25
Packaged: 2017-12-27 14:49:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Underage
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,945
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/980163
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ziyazu/pseuds/ziyazu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It was just one of those things that happened. One of those amazing, weird, summer things that just… happened. That definitely, definitely happened. He’s sure of it. It happened, okay?</p><p>How else would he have ended up with the guy’s shirt? Explain that.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Miguel

**Author's Note:**

> This slots nicely into the end of the summer between Season 2 and Season 3a, though the whole thing is a response to Danny's shirt in 3x09 when he and a few others flee the school after practicing for the memorial recital. The shirt he's wearing there is clearly Derek's shirt. There needed to be an explanation. So I wrote one.
> 
> NOTE: I've marked it as 'Underage', but what Danny says is true: 16 is the age of sexual consent in Hawai'i (unlike California, where it is 18). Of course, if the sex in question is happening in California, even if the younger party could potentially be a latent Hawai'ian resident, of Hawai'ian descent? I'm still fairly sure it's a felony. Argue it as you see fit.

Look, it's not important when it happened. It happened. Danny is _sure_ it happened. That's what matters.

Right? Right.

Summer, it was summer. It was the steaming end of summer, no fall kick to the air to take off the edge of the heat, no crisp, cool days in sight, just misery and mirages on the cracking roads and wildfires in the hills beyond the town, making the air thick and gritty. Jackson had just called to tell him that, for sure, he was staying in London, and, for sure, Danny had no best friend any more.

Danny had lots of other friends, though, he'd be fine. Good ol' Danny. He’s so nice. Nice to _everyone_. Everyone likes Danny. Danny’s _popular_.

God-fucking-dammit.

Danny had kicked his dresser then, he remembers. There's still a scuff. He'd regretted it instantly, because, _nice_ , but he'd also scowled, ripped off his shirt, taken a shower, angrily made his hair look awesome, and stalked to grab his fake ID, hidden in the spot behind his swimming trophies.

His and _Jackson’s_ swimming trophies.

 _Asshole_.

Just, fuck everything, he was going to Jungle. He was going to be a huge fucking gay cliché and he was going to dance. DANCE, DAMMIT. He was going to dance wearing Jackson’s fucking shirt, because he’s not exactly coming back to claim it, is he? What was Jackson’s is now Danny’s. He can fucking _deal_.

And hey, Danny is good at dancing. Danny looks good dancing. Danny was going to be good at dancing and he was going to look good dancing and he was probably going to feel good somewhere after looking good dancing, and it would make all of this go away for at least one night, because if there’s one thing Danny’s good at, it’s ignoring weird shit when he wants to.

Come on, he lives in Beacon Hills and he’s not a dumbass. Ignoring weird shit is basically a full-time job these days. So: dancing. That was the plan, anyways. Danny's plans don't ever really pan out. He's just too _nice_.

He’s nice enough that when the guy shoves past on his way to the bar, Danny waits that crucial beat before hollering, " _Excuse you!_ " back at him.

It’s that crucial beat that says 'I am not worth your time', and, 'I am not going to punch you over this' but still lets the person know you’re not a pushover. Not someone who’s going to ignore them being a dick forever if they keep shit up. It draws a line. It saves you from being the guy who just took it, and will keep taking it, but it also saves you from being the guy asking for it, you know? It keeps you _nice_.

And hey, even when you look like Danny, some guys still wanna rumble. And, seriously, this is a gay club. Most of the guys here look like Danny, or else they're aiming for something totally different. Muscles are not the only look going, not by a long shot, but they are Danny's look, and, as he trails an irritated glance after the guy, damn, they're totally that his look too. And it is _working_.

He pauses, giving the guy a once-over, and his eyes have just managed to slide down past dark hair and a seriously sweet leather jacket to - _fuck_ , how long do jeans that tight even take to get on? - when the guy turns back, scowl hardly even registering as anger before Danny blinks, realizing he's seen this particular scowl before.

He squints against the strobe lights, steps forward, and squints again. His brain finally clicks, and he offers a hand and a smile as he says, "Oh hey, Miguel, right? You're Stiles' cousin."

The scowl deepens, and when it flicks back up from his hand – otherwise pointedly ignored – it is a very clear glare. Danny tucks his hand awkwardly in the front pocket of his jeans, and raises his eyebrows apologetically.

"Um, sorry dude. Have a good night."

The guy steps closer. "Don't call me 'dude'." His eyes flick over Danny's face, and Danny is used to being examined, but, um, this guy is getting pretty close. It’s not that Danny minds, he’s rarely been hit on by someone even approaching this level of hot, but… this isn’t being hit on. This is just weird. He even sniffs the air, weirdly, like Scott is always doing.

"Armani," Danny supplies without thinking, even offering his practiced sidegrin for good measure. Whatever, this guy may be a dick, but Danny's a huge flirt, and _fuck_ he is never forgetting how this guy looks without a shirt on. Plus, up close, Miguel has got cheekbones like-

"Your name is Armani?"

Danny stares at him, cheekbones momentarily forgotten. "Uh, no, man. Aftershave. Armani.” Miguel raises his eyebrows like this is the stupidest thing he’s ever heard. Danny’s eyes widen.

“Whoa, seriously? You're in a gay club and the word 'Armani' doesn't mean anything to you? I- wow. Are you for real?"

Miguel scowls again, and goes to turn, and dammit, Danny is just too goddamn nice. And, yes, okay, horny. He's very horny too. And motivated! You haven’t seen this guy without a shirt; _Danny has_. He would like to see it again. He would like to see more.

"Hey, sorry, I didn't mean- Look, damn, I was a dick, okay? I..." he trails off as the guy looks back at him, stonyfaced, and quirks an eyebrow, clearly questioning his right to exist.

Danny deflates. "Yeah, I got nothin'. I just. Sorry. I'll leave you alone now."

Miguel – seriously, is that really his name? He doesn’t look like a Miguel – has stepped back close and is studying him again.  He sniffs, more than once, looking curiously at the shirt Danny has on. Danny feels weird. Should he go?

"Uh. Should I go? Yeah, I'm gonna go." He doesn't get far.

"Jackson. You know Jackson, too." His voice is surprised but firm, like he’s just figured it out.

Danny turns around. "Uh, yeah. Well, knew. You know, before he decided to move to _fucking London_." That may have been unnecessary vehemence in his tone. He may be a bit bitter. So what if he's bitter, _Jackson’s a douche_.

Miguel is frowning now. "‘Moved’? He's staying there?"

"Yeah, you didn't know? He called me this afternoon." Danny looks at his feet. "Fucker," he adds, with half-hearted mostly-sad anger.

Miguel looks curious now, confused, maybe even… hurt? This is so weird.  “But what about-"

"Lydia?" Danny laughs, totally without humour. "Who even knows, man. There's been something really messed up going on, but fuck if I know what it is. Everyone's been so weird, for months. Jackson, McCall, even your cousin."

Miguel rolls his eyes, but still looks... Danny doesn't even know. Then, it clicks. He had looked _hurt_.

"Whoa, wait a sec. Were you- were YOU the reason Jackson got weird? The reason he broke up with Lydia?" The guy's eyes go a little wide and Danny pounces. "Oh fuck, I knew it. I knew he was into guys. He never fucking told me anything, but I _knew_ it. Jesus. That prick. And now he's gone and fucked everyone over it. _Fuck!_ "

"Uh..."

"Look, he's such a dick, doing this to everyone, I can't believe it. Jesus. He ever comes back I'm gonna kill him."

Miguel suddenly goes from looking totally deer-in-headlights to looking painfully chagrined. "It's harder than you’d think," he sighs. Danny laughs.

"Trust me, I was his best friend for ten years. I played lacrosse with him for seven. I think I know how hard it'd be. I do okay on the field, but that guy- I mean, especially lately, Jackson's just been crazy..." He trails off, angry, and suddenly really fucking sick of the whole thing. He really doesn't want to talk about Jackson. This guy probably really doesn't want to talk about Jackson. This is not why he came out.

Plus, uh. Miguel is still really fucking close. He’s also… he’s also watching Danny talk. As in, watching his mouth. From not very far away. His eyes – holy shit, _his eyes_ , seriously, what even is that colour? – flick back up to Danny’s when the silence continues, looking more than a little guilty, and Danny could swear he almost fucking smiles.

Right. So.

Danny may be about to try something stupid.

"Hey, you wanna get outta here?"

* * *

Miguel freezes for a second, and then his brow furrows. He blinks. He hadn’t been expecting that. Shit. Danny read this wrong. Then, just as quickly, Miguel smirks, shaking his head slightly.

“There is no way you’re eighteen. If you know Jackson and Scott and Stiles, you’re sixteen, just like they are. How are you even in here?”

Danny throws out his trademark grin and ducks his head, takes the half-step closer that means he can get his hands on that leather jacket. He pulls lightly on both sides of the zipper and bites his lip, eyes sliding appreciatively up to meet Miguel’s again, but, nope he's watching Danny's mouth. Again. Danny smirks.

“Sixteen’s legal in the Islands.”

Miguel is clearly confused by that.

“Danny Mahealani? I’m Hawai’ian. Means ‘full moon’.” Miguel’s eyes jerk to his. Danny shrugs. “I’m not fluent, but my Mom is.” He pauses meaningfully. “And she’s in Maui.” 

Miguel shakes his head again, but he looks at Danny for a moment too long, and when he looks away, that almost-smile is back. His eyes unfocus, and he considers. Danny lets him think about it. Doesn’t mean he doesn't slide his hands inside the jacket and up the guy’s sides. Danny knows how to tilt the scales in his favour. If the sharp intake of breath and the insanely warm hand suddenly gripping his hip like a vice is any indication, it’s working.

When the tug on his beltloop comes, it’s quick, and so is the flash of fingers against his skin. Miguel doesn’t make eye contact again, just trails his hand up Danny’s stomach and disappears into the crowd, heading straight for the exit.

Danny’s not an idiot. Danny follows.

* * *

The Camaro is a surprise.

Danny does _not_ have a problem with the Camaro.

He doesn’t have a problem with the hand on his inner thigh during the drive, either. They roll the windows down and the rush of the still-too-warm night air makes what would be awkward silence somehow hot and heavy, tense, but in a good way. He doesn’t know where they’re going – they’re somewhere in the industrial bit of town – but by the time they park, he’s not even remotely surprised by the hand on the back of his neck, or the way they meet over the gearshift without talking, swift and sloppy and hard.

He grabs a fistful of leather and gets a bitten lip in return.

Fuck, going out tonight was the best decision _ever_.

* * *

Up in the loft – which has a giant hole in one of the walls and is only barely furnished, but, you know, whatever – it’s like some crazy force has taken a hold of them both.

They’re grabbing at each other, slamming each other into walls, there’s a lot of ripping at clothing and hard-handed groping. It’s like they can’t breathe without running their nails across each other’s skin, without grinding and gasping into each other’s mouths, sparks shooting as they knock together just right. There’s no finesse, there’s no smouldering looks and smooth exploration of fingers, it’s fast and it’s rough and it’s fucking perfect somehow.

Danny doesn’t know why it’s like this, and he is not asking questions. Danny is just going for it, because this dude is all over him, and he is _into it_. Come on, if Danny was asking questions, he’d be asking why the guy Jackson apparently hooked up with over the last few months now wants in his best friend’s pants the very night he finds out Jackson’s split for good, but… oh. Danny just answered his own question with that, didn’t he? Right.

So, this is a revenge fuck, for both of them. Miguel mouths down the side of his neck, teeth catching, lips sucking hard. Danny lets out a deep moan, and his hand fists tight in Miguel’s hair.

Yeah, okay. Danny can do revenge. He could use a break from _nice_ anyways.

And the next thing he tries is very definitely not nice. He jerks Miguel’s head away from his neck and whirls him around to the wall Danny’s been backed up against for the last few minutes. The guy’s eyes practically blaze red, and he growls low and sort of crazy, but Danny’s on the floor between his knees before he can even find his balance again, and Danny’s fingers on his belt have him arching off the wall, so he figures he’s forgiven.

And Jesus, the guy was wearing a leather jacket in a club in August during a heatwave, _of course_ he doesn’t wear underwear. Of fucking course.

Day: made.

Well. It had been made the minute Danny saw that ass, but nevermind. Who can think about things like that when there is a hand to God _perfect_ cock waiting for him to suck it down?

Not Danny.

* * *

There is no perfect way to give head, but Danny likes to think he’s mastered it from as many angles as he can reasonably be expected to. He’s not a pornstar, though they’ve been very helpful, and he can’t quite manage his shit enough to get well and truly fucked in the face, but he knows he’s good.

Miguel? Miguel clearly wasn’t expecting anything like what he’s giving him. Miguel is just sort of melting against the wall. He might actually be dying. Danny is watching him under his lashes, stroking his thumbs in slow circles on Miguel’s hipbones in time with his tongue, and God, he’s just unearthly beautiful like this. Danny may be the one with a cock in his mouth, but Miguel is the one to watch right now.

They haven’t turned on any lights, so it’s just the filtered industrial glow that comes through that big wall of windows that he’s seeing him by. It’s dim, and it’s grainy, but Danny’s nightvision has kicked in a bit, and he is all about the way Miguel’s head has tilted back. His mouth is open, lips hanging loose, his sharp chin with that perfect however-many-day stubble leading the way when he arches off the wall again as Danny swirls his tongue. His fingers grope at the brick as his hips struggle to stay put, the tendons in his neck straining as he tries hard not to thrust, not to choke Danny.

It’s goddamn beautiful, actually. Or, well, it would be without that shirt in the way. He’s lost the leather jacket, but he’s still mostly dressed. So is Danny. How are they still wearing so many clothes?

He smooths a hand up Miguel’s stomach, pushing up his shirt, scraping back down with his nails. Miguel gets the hint and lean forward an inch or two to whip it off, and Danny hums, his eyes devouring before he gives another hard suck and pops off as he rises up higher on his knees to mouth at the lines of muscle.

Miguel only lets him for a moment before he toes off his shoes hurriedly and then pushes Danny back sharply, stripping his legs out of those skin-tight jeans before tearing Danny’s shirt over his head and hauling him up bodily up and over towards the bed. He spins them just as they get there, Danny landing on his back, and he’s a bit dazed, and the sudden shift to horizontal makes his head spin, but Miguel’s mouth back on his wet one and the press of his knees on either side of Danny’s thighs steadies him, and he hums again, biting at Miguel’s lower lip.

One of his hands comes down to pick at his belt, but it’s not really a great angle, so Danny gets it himself, undoes his fly and shucks his jeans and boxers off his hips. He can’t get them off entirely, just as far down as he can reach with a good shove or two, but it’s far enough because Miguel’s hand is there again, wrapping around him and fuuuuuuck, how is the guy so warm? He’s like a fucking furnace and it should be suffocating because there’s no A/C in the loft but somehow it’s like they’re both on fire and it just drives Danny on, makes him _crazy_.

He doesn’t even know how this is happening really, Miguel must be at least, what? 20? 25? He has no fucking idea and as he grips his hand tighter and leans down to bite at Danny’s nipple, Danny just does not fucking care.

 _This_ , he decides as Miguel strokes him fast and his eyes roll back in his head. _This_ is his reward for being so fucking nice all the time. _This_ is his reward for putting up with Jackson for so many years, and for being the only out guy in his class, and for never, ever, _ever_ being in the loop about anything.

And as Miguel moves down his chest, adding bites and growling again when Danny puts his hands back in his hair, adding a harsh nip to his thigh as he rips his jeans the rest of the way off, Danny thinks it’s all been worth it.

* * *

There’s no polite way to ask whether a guy tops or bottoms, or if he’s even into that. It’s just… well it’s either super obvious from the way both of you handle things from the start or you have to straight up ask when it comes down to it.

Danny figures, though, that him coming all over Miguel’s face probably means he’s not going to be fucking anyone tonight. He’s not bothered. There’s only so much mind-blowing bliss a soon-to-be high school junior can handle, and he would not have been impressive. Besides, something about the way Miguel sucked him off made him pretty sure he knows what he’s doing. You know, mostly the way in which it was totally amazing, and he was really angry at not being able to focus enough to learn from it. Well, angry and totally flattened by probably the best orgasm of his life to date. But, angry. Sort of.

Anyways, the point is: superior experience. Danny is very, very okay with being on the receiving end of that. In this case, probably literally. So when Miguel gets back from splashing water on his face, Danny pops the question. “So, I’m kinda outta the running for a bit, but if you’re up for topping, I’m cool with that.”

Miguel nods, sliding back down on top of him, still running a million degrees both literally and figuratively. “Sure.” He leans in and bites at Danny's neck, gently, but with definite teeth. Hot as he is, Danny shivers.

He's not sure why he asks the next question. “So, ‘Miguel’. Really? Was that just Stiles being an asshole?”

Miguel (or whoever) stiffens, and raises up on his arms, looming. He’s actually freaking _looming_. What _is_ this guy, is he a creature of the _night?_ Um. He also looks a little pissed. Shit.

“He’s not an asshole.” Probably-Not-Miguel seems pretty adamant about this. “He’s a good kid.”

“No, I know. I mean. Stiles is fine. I like Stiles. When he shuts up.” Almost-Certainly-Not-Miguel smirks at that. Danny pauses, then winces, and continues. “It was kind of a shitty thing to do, though, using you that way. Shitty to you. And to me.”

Definitely-Not-Miguel kind of huffs, like maybe it was supposed to be a laugh but it never quite got there. “Yeah, consider him punished for that.”

He looks vaguely pleased and vaguely ashamed. It’s a good look on him. All looks are good on him. Danny runs his fingers up and down too-warm ribs and pointedly asks,

“So. Not ‘Miguel’, then?”

Not-Miguel smirks one more time, the expression spreading slowly and wildly across his face, and he lowers himself back down, kissing Danny deeply before murmuring briefly against his lips,

“ _No_.”

And that’s all the answer that Danny ever gets.

* * *

It’s… pretty great sex.

It isn’t too rough and it isn’t too fast and Danny was right, he definitely knows what he’s doing. Even before Danny is up on his knees he’s halfway to heaven, and he is _definitely_ getting the expensive lube from now on, holy shit. So worth it.

The slide of it inside him and the slide of it on his cock as he strokes himself are just perfect, right on the edge of ecstatic, the hands on his hips pulling him back with precision in an effortless rhythm, and he would be embarrassed about how little it takes, about the noises he makes and the way he begs for it to never stop when he hits just the right place, but by that point he doesn’t even care.

When they’re finally lying side by side, slippery and sticky and sated, he really isn’t sure if he can walk, so he gratefully accepts the offer of a ride back to Jungle after a few hours of exhausted sleep. By the time the sun comes up, he’s crawling into his own bed, showered, bleary, and prepared to claim the right of every high school student to sleep away a summer’s day.

He wakes up fuzzy and muddled in the midafternoon, needing sugar and caffeine in a bad way. He manages PopTarts, an iced coffee, and two reruns of some shitty sitcom before collapsing back into bed, and it isn’t until he looks in the mirror that night and sees the faint outline of a mark on his neck that he even stops to realise it was real.

* * *

It’s not so great that Danny is ruined for all other men. It would have to be truly spectacular for that; Danny _really_ likes men.

It _is_ so great that when Danny hooks up with Ethan a bit later, he’s slightly disappointed. Ethan seems to have an overheating problem too, which is reminiscent of that night in the loft in a really awesome way, but there’s just… not quite the same level of fire between them, even if slow and smouldery is probably more Danny’s style on the regular, and they have that in spades.

Ethan is sweet enough for Danny to forget about the loft pretty quickly, though. Well, not _forget_ , but… yeah. Plus, there’s more weird shit going on, people keep dying, and it’s not like he really has much time for Jungle during school, or that he ever has a reason to hit the industrial side of town. You know. Ever.

So he doesn’t really expect to see Not-Miguel again, small town notwithstanding. He doesn’t even see his black Camaro around, and that’s pretty surprising on further thought, because a car like that stands out, you know? Probably the guy left town. He didn’t seem that settled, there was barely anything in the loft.

And maybe, a few months later, when people have stopped dying and he thinks about it a few too many times in one week, he swings by. And maybe he finds it completely empty, confirming all his suspicions. And maybe that’s disappointing, but probably mostly okay.

It was just one of those things that happened. One of those amazing, weird, summer things that just… happened.

That definitely, _definitely_ happened. He’s sure of it. It happened, okay?

How else would he have ended up with the guy’s shirt?

Explain that.

 

 

 


End file.
